


Outlook Not So Good

by Fundead (DragonThistle)



Series: The 8-Ball Series [3]
Category: Gorillaz
Genre: M/M, Oviposition, murdoc is not jealous hE IS NOT JEALOUS AT ALL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 17:32:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9618026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonThistle/pseuds/Fundead
Summary: Murdoc isn't built for this domestic shit.





	

2D spends most of this time in a hazy, half doze on the couch.

His back hurts from the weight in his stomach, if he’s on his feet too long his legs get shaky, and he’s so tired he has a hard time concentrating anyway. Sleep has been nearly impossible; he’s so uncomfortable and feels so gross that nothing he does can get him any sort of fitful rest. So his life has become a state of such deep bleary semi-consciousness that he might as well be catatonic. Again.

Russel finds him fidgeting in front of the television, arching his back and readjusting his position every five minutes or so. The guy’s a mess, huffing and groaning and twisting around, his hair matted and his shirt bunching over the curve of his belly no matter how many times he pulls it down. He hasn’t worn pants in days.

The pitiful whimper that escapes the singer’s mouth breaks Russel’s resolve to keep his nose out of the entire business.

“Move over.” Without waiting for a response, Russel picks 2D up in one hand, flops himself onto the couch, and then sets the singer on his lap.

“R-Rus’, wot—wot’re you—“

“Shut up.” The drummer grunts, starring pointedly at the television and ignoring the bony joints digging into him, “Sit down. Be quiet.”

2D recognizes a gift horse when he sees one and quietly settles against Russel. He might be taller but the drummer has more mass and 2D finds a comfortable spot nestled against Russel’s side, legs curled on the cushions and arms crossed over his chest. He’s stiff and awkward at first, casting sidelong glances at Russel as if expecting to be shoved away at any moment, but eventually he begins to relax. After a while, his head flops against Russel’s shoulder and his breathing evens out.

Russel smirks, ruffles that trademark mop of blue hair, and keeps watching the television in silence.

****

Murdoc trails into the den, puffing like a steam engine, when he catches sight of Russel on the couch. The television is on but the volume is low. The bassist is about to approach his bandmate and harass him for the whereabouts of a certain frontman when he catches sight of a tuft of blue hair over the top of the couch, nestled against Russel’s side.

Something coils into a vicious little knot in his chest and his lip curls. A growl rumbles in his throat, nicotine-stained smoke billowing out his nose as his fingers curl into fists. There’s the faint stench of sulphur in the air. Something hot is pulsing through his veins.

Murdoc turns on his heel and stomps out of the room.

Russel watches him leave out of the corner of his eye but says nothing to stop him.

****

When Murdoc comes back later with scraped and bruised knuckles, Russel is gone and the television is off. 2D is wrapped in a thick comforter, still fast asleep, his head propped on a lumpy pillow.

Murdoc snubs out his cigarette (how many has that been today, he’s lost count, decides it doesn’t matter) on an end table and saunters over. He leans over the back of the couch, arms folded, one leg cocked back and his head canted to the side as he observes the sleeping singer. That lanky form, all knees and elbows and clumsy legs, is swallowed by the blanket, his lips parted slightly as his breath whistles between his missing front teeth. There are gaunt rings under his closed eyes. For a moment, Murdoc is reminded of the time when this was still Stuart Pot, comatose, helpless, a victim of circumstance and Murdoc’s poor planning.

“Yer a right piece of useless shit,” The bassist mutters, “Whiny, clingy, needy, unbelievably clumsy sometimes. If you weren’t a decent singer I woulda left your ass on the asphalt that day.” A pause, “Well, guess your girly looks kinda helped a bit.” He snorts, watching 2D breathe, almost hypnotized by the natural art of being alive,

“You’re sweet, kid. Prolly too sweet, if I’m honest. Which I rarely am. Fer fucks sake, what am I doin’! Yer asleep! Ya’ can’t hear me!”

“Talking to sleepers brings your voice to their dreams.”

Murdoc will never admit to letting out a high pitched yelp and jumping a foot in the air. He gains some impressive height as he spins around, eyes wide and wild as they search for the disturbance.

Noodle stands in the door to the den, clutching a stack of papers and a tin of colored pencils to her chest. She giggles at Murdoc’s reaction, grinning that too big smile of her’s. Murdoc snorts, struggling to compose himself.

“Ah, shit, Noodle, ya’ scared the piss outta me. How long you been standin’ there, then, eh?”

“Only just now, Murdoc-san!” Noodle says cheerily and bounces past him to skip around the couch. She stops when she sees 2D stretched out across the cushions, still deeply asleep, “Aw, don’t want to wake 2-Chee…”

“Don’ worry about it,” Murdoc comes around the couch and kneels down, carefully slipping his arms under the singer and lifting him up, blanket and all. 2D stirs, groaning a little, and then settles down again with a grunt,

“We were just leavin’.”

****

2D opens his eyes slowly, hazy with the deep sleep he’s been in, and blinks to try and refocus. He’s somewhere soft and warm and dimly lit. The air stinks of cigarettes and stale sweat and pine-scented fresheners and clean laundry. It’s a cloying, familiar scent and 2D almost drifts off again from the comfort of it.

But the aches and pains that have become daily routine make him wince and roll over onto his side, facing the room proper instead of the poster plastered walls. The Winnebago is dark, lit only by the lights from the car park filtering through the slitted blinds. It’s quiet and still, unusual for a place that’s usually thriving with noise and attention. 2D just lays there, grimacing slightly at how uncomfortable he’s beginning to feel, and appreciates the silence for however long it will last.

It doesn’t last very long because the door opens (though with less of its usual gusto) and Murdoc trails in, an unlit cigarette clenched between his crooked teeth. He’s carrying a tray in one hand, a plastic bag dangling off his wrist and a blanket tucked under his arm. He’s humming quietly, vague strains of a half-formed song, as he pulls the door closed and flips the latch and turns to the trailer proper. 2D doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just watches this rare form of Murdoc Niccals as he bustle quietly around the trailer.

The bassist goes to set the tray on the table, pauses, and uses his free arm to push some empty cans and bottles and cigarette packets out of the way. Once he’s set down the tray and the bag, he turns to the bed and finally notices he has an audience. The two look at one another for a long moment and then Murdoc snorts and shuffles over to the bed.

“Ey, faceache, nice ta’ see you decided to join the world a’ the living.” Without waiting for protest from 2D, he hefts the singer up into a sitting position and drops the blanket around his shoulders. 2D recognizes it as one from his own bed and looks up as Murdoc moves back to the table, “Passed out on the couch like a ninny, gettin’ in everyone’s way,” He picks the tray up and sets it in 2D’s lap, “Rus said you didn’ eat lunch. So here’s dinner. Eat. If ya’ stood sidewayas and stuck your tongue out you’d look like a zipper.” The bassist casts a glance at 2D’s round stomach, “Well, usually ya’ would.”

2D looks down at the bowl of thick stew, the sliced and buttered artisan bread, the quaint bowl of apple slices, the sweating glass of lemonade. His long fingers curl slowly around the spoon and dip it into the stew. He can hear Murdoc rustling about in the trailer, banging things out of the sink and fidgeting with the tap.

“Whatchoo bein’ so nice to me for?” The words spill out of his mouth before he can think to stop them.

The banging in the sink comes to a halt but the water running fills the silence with white noise. It’s an awkward tension and 2D doesn’t dare look up from the tray of food, afraid of the look he might find on his bandmate’s face if he does.

“Gotta take care of my frontman,” Murdoc says gruffly and the sound of the water changes, like it’s filling something up. 2D doesn’t respond, just digs into his dinner slowly. The microwave bangs and beeps and hums. 2D listens to Murdoc shuffle around but keeps his attention on his tray of food. His stomach hurts. He doesn’t feel much like eating.

“‘Ere.” Something wrapped in a towel is shoved in his face and 2D starts, almost upending the tray. He gingerly takes the thing from Murdoc, who is gesturing impatiently at him, and finds it to be warm and malleable, “’S a hot water bottle. ‘Sposed to be good for, I dunno, upset stomachs ’n shit. ‘Corrdin’ to Noodle, anyway.”

“Oh, th-thanks Murdoc…” It’s a little bit weird, this attention. Not that 2D minds or anything, but it’s definitely throwing him off balance. He decides to try and test the waters a bit because, really, what else does he have to lose, “Hey, um, M-Murdoc?” The bassist grunts from across the Winnebago where he’s shoving paper plates and condom wrappers and empty cans into a trash bag. 2D swallows hard, licks his lips, forces the words out,

“C-can you come over here ’n jus’…jus’ sit wif me…for a bit?”

Murdoc stares and 2D feels the heat creep up his neck, over his face, and burn his ears. He ducks his head shamefully and takes a gulp of water. He feels like an idiot.

The bed springs creak and Murdoc flops beside him with a sigh. The cigarette is still between his teeth, still unlit. He’s not looking at 2D, his gaze wandering the walls in a tired manner, his arms crossed over his chest. 2D hides a smile with a twitch of his lips and leans against the bassist, their shoulders knocking together.

“Eat, ya’ twig,” Murdoc grunts, jabbing an elbow into the singer’s side. A grin curls into his voice and his tongue lolls out to lick his sharp teeth, “But leave room for dessert…”

2D nearly chokes on a bite of stew and Murdoc laughs.


End file.
